Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“I’m sorry about that, Barnaby, but it’s not my fault. Cate and Felix were murdered.”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!”

“Listen to me—”

“No! I don’t want to hear any more of your stories. I want you to leave my family alone. Stay away from us.”

As soon as he hangs up my mobile chirrups like a fledgling.

“Hello? Alisha? Hello.”

“I can hear you, Mama.”

“Is everything OK?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Did Hari call you?”

“No.”

“A Chief Superintendent North has been trying to reach you. He said you didn’t turn up for work.”

Hendon! My new job as a recruitment officer. I totally forgot.

“He wants you to call him.”

“OK.”

“Are you sure everything is all right?”

“Yes, Mama.”

She starts telling me about my nieces and nephews—which ones are teething, smiling, walking or talking. Then I hear about the dance recitals, soccer games and school concerts. Grandchildren are at the center of her life. I should feel usurped but the emotion is closer to emptiness.

“Come round for lunch on Sunday. Everyone will be here. Except for Hari. He has a study date.”

That’s a new name for it.

“Bring that nice sergeant.” She means “New Boy” Dave.

“I didn’t bring him last time.”

“He was very nice.”

“He’s not a Sikh, Mama.”

“Oh, don’t worry about your father. He’s all bark and no bite. I thought your friend was very polite.”

“Polite.”

“Yes. You can’t expect to marry a prince. But with a little patience and hard work, you can make one. Look how well I did with your father.”

I can’t help but love her. She kisses the receiver. Not many people still do that. I kiss her back.

As if on cue I get a call from “New Boy” Dave. Maybe they’re working in cahoots.

“Hello, sweet girl.”

“Hello, sweet boy.” I can hear him breathing as distinctly as if he were standing next to me.

“I miss you.”

“A part of you misses me.”

“No. All of me.”

The odd thing is that I miss him too. It’s a new feeling.

“Have you found her?”

“No.”

“I want you to come home. We need to talk.”

“So let’s talk.”

He has something he wants to say. I can almost hear him rehearsing it in his mind. “I’m quitting the force.”

“Good God!”

“There’s a little sailing school on the south coast. It’s up for sale.”

“A sailing school.”

“It’s a good business. It makes money in the summer and in the winter I’ll work on the fishing boats or get a security job.”

“Where will you get the money?”

“I’m going to buy it with Simon.”

“I thought he was working in San Diego?”

“He is, but he and Jacquie are coming home.”

Simon is Dave’s brother. He is a sailmaker or a boat designer—I can never remember which one.

“But I thought you liked being a detective.”

“It’s not a good job if I ever have a family.”

Fair point. “You’ll be closer to your mum and dad.” (They live in Poole.)

“Yeah.”

“Sailing can be fun.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Here’s the thing, Ali. I want you to come with me. We can be business partners.”

“Partners?”

“You know I’m in love with you. I want to get married. I want us to be together.” He’s talking quickly now. “You don’t have to say anything yet. Just think about it. I’ll take you down there. I’ve found a cottage in Milford-on-Sea. It’s beautiful. Don’t say no. Just say maybe. Let me show you.”

I feel something shift inside me and I want to take his large hand in my two small hands and kiss his eyelids. Despite what he says, I know he wants an answer. I can’t give him one. Not today, nor tomorrow. The future is an hour-by-hour panorama.

Once more I walk past the Oude Kerk and Trompettersteeg. Hokke was right—the red light district is different at night. I can almost smell the testosterone and used condoms.

As I pass each window, I press a photograph against the glass. Some of the prostitutes shout at me or shake their fingers angrily. Others offer seductive smiles. I don’t want to meet their eyes, but I must make sure they look at Samira.

I walk through Goldbergersteeg and Bethlemsteeg, making a mental note of those windows where the curtains are closed so I can return later. Only one woman tries to encourage me indoors. She puts two fingers to her lips and pokes her tongue between them. She says something in Dutch. I shake my head.

In English this time. “You want a woman.” She shakes her claret covered breasts.

“I don’t sleep with women.”

“But you’ve thought about it.”

“No.”

“I can be a man. I have the tools.” She is laughing at me now.

I move on, around the corner, along the canal through Boomsteeg to Molensteeg. There are three windows side by side, almost below ground. The curtain is open on the center one. A young woman raises her eyes. Black lights make her blond hair and white panties glow like neon. A tiny triangle barely covers her crotch and two higher on her chest are pulled together to create a cleavage. The only other shadows darken the depression on either side of her pubic bone where the bikini is stretched tightly across her hips.

A balloon hangs from the window. Streamers. Birthday decorations? I hold the photograph against the glass. A flash of recognition. Something in her eyes.

“You know her?”

She shakes her head. She’s lying.

“Help me.”

There are traces of beauty in her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw. Her hair is parted. The thin scalp line is dark instead of white. She lowers her eyes. She’s curious.

The door opens. I step inside. The room is scarcely wide enough for a double bed, a chair and a small sink attached to the wall. Everything is pink, the pillows, sheets and the fresh towel lying on top. One entire wall is a mirror, reflecting the same scene so it looks like we’re sharing the room with another window.

The prostitute sips from a can of soft drink. “My name is Eve—just like the first woman.” She laughs sarcastically. “Welcome to my Garden of Eden.”

Leaning down she picks up a packet of cigarettes beneath her stool. Her breasts sway. She hasn’t bothered closing the curtain. Instead she stays by the window. I look at the bed and the chair, wondering where to sit.

Eve points to the bed. “Twenty euros, five minutes.”

Her accent is a mixture of Dutch and American. It’s another testament to the power of Hollywood which has taught generations of people in distant corners of the world to speak English.

I hand over the money. She palms it like a magician making a playing card disappear.

I hold up the photograph again. “Her name is Samira.”

“She’s one of the pregnant ones.”

I feel myself straighten. Invisible armor. Knowledge.

Eve shrugs. “Then again, I could be wrong.”

The thumbprint on her forearm is a bruise. Another on her neck is even darker.

“Where did you see her? When?”

“Sometimes I get asked to help with the new ones. To show them.”

“To show them what?”

She laughs and lights a cigarette. “What do you think? Sometimes they watch me from the chair or from the bed, depending on what the customer has paid for. Some of them like being watched. Makes it quicker.”

I’m about to ask about why she needs a chair, when I notice the strip of carpet on the floor to protect her knees.

“But you said she was pregnant. Why would you need to show her this?”